


Tryst in Room 28

by Plankwieldinghuntys



Category: Blur, Jedward
Genre: BDSM, Blood and Gore, F/M, M/M, Orgy, Rough Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-17
Updated: 2017-03-17
Packaged: 2018-10-06 17:16:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10340274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Plankwieldinghuntys/pseuds/Plankwieldinghuntys
Summary: When Alex and Graham check into the Savoy hotel for a romantic weekend, they end up with more than they bargained for...





	1. A Proper Good Stuffing

With a hefty swing of his Savile Row leather brogues, Alex kicked open the door to the Bridal Suite of the Savoy hotel, carrying his beloved in his sturdy tweed-wrapped arms. He lay his prize down on the Egyptian cotton sheets and smiled.  
“Tonight’s the night, my darling,” he purred, reaching for the champagne cooler on the nightstand.  
Graham stretched out against the romantic Tudor-style four poster, his matching Harris tweed jacket crumpled by the pair’s heady embracing, and began loosening his tie.  
“I wanted to show you how much I love you, Gra,” Alex continued. “That’s why I brought you here…where nobody can put a halt to our passion!”  
His voice cracked with emotion as he undid the gold foil on the bottle of Moet Chandon and Graham placed a tender arm around him.  
“C-come here,” Graham stuttered, overcome with intensity for his weeping lover. “Ever since those brandy-fuelled orgies in Kyoto, back when we were recording The Magic Whip”  
He paused as they stole a sly smile at each other, the only two in the band who knew the true meaning behind that title. “I’ve wanted to just have you alone…all to m-myself!”  
“Graham, you saucy old fool!” Alex declared. “I’ve spent many’s a lonely night thinking the same thing!”  
Without another thought, Alex reached across to the ivory gilded phone and punched in the number for room service.  
“Say listen here!” he demanded. “Another 3 bottles of vintage champagne, a quart of olive oil, some rosemary and…a good length of rope!”  
He smiled satisfactorily to himself as with a flourish, he cast off his jacket and began rolling up the sleeves of his J.W. Anderson pressed cotton shirt.  
“Cor blimey, Alex!” Graham stammered, starting to perspire under his cap, as Alex took it upon himself to undress him.  
“I have to say,” Alex purred beguilingly, as he caressed his lover’s mature frame. “Ever since I had that romp with Delia in the Ready Steady Cook dressing room, I’ve acquired a penchant for tying my lovers up like game birds…and giving them a proper good stuffing!”  
Graham’s member stiffened under his tweed trousers as Alex undid them for him, his senses aflame recalling their soy sauce and sushi play in that seedy Japanese motel that afternoon Damon was in Pyongyang and Dave was shopping for samurai swords. Tonight was going to be another savoury delight he’d never forget.  
Just as Alex unleashed Graham’s startling three-inch prick from its tweed shackles, there was a light knock on the door, that could only mean one thing: room service.  
“Just a minute!” Alex called out, flustered, taking Graham’s right testicle out of his mouth and making for the door.  
“It’s only me!” cooed a familiar dulcet Irish tone as the door swung open and in walked Savoy bellhop, John – none other than one half of Irish teen pop sensations, John & Edward (more commonly known as Jedward) – promptly dropping the crate of champagne and olive oil on the floor in shock as he took in the sodomic sight in front of him. “Oh heavens bayjaysus!” he cried. “They never prepared me for this in the convent!”  
At once Alex sprang into action, throwing a duvet over Graham’s modesty and knocking the rest of the Moet off the bed in the process.  
“You idiot!” he cried, slapping John across the face. “Look what you’ve made me do! Lick it up!”  
“Yes sir!” John whimpered, getting down on all fours, tongue pawing at the rug like a cat cleaning an infected wound.  
“Oh, come off it Alex!” Graham moaned. “Don’t be ridiculous!”  
Alex sighed begrudgingly; anything to please his lover. He picked John up by the scruff of the uniform and carted him outside the room.  
“FIVE more bottles to replace the ones you smashed, butterfingers!” he snapped. “And where’s my rope?”  
He slapped him again for good measure and disappeared back inside the suite.

John and Edward McAnalty had lead a simple life since retiring from their 15 minutes of fame and fortune. After spending three years in Peru as goat herders, they’d returned to Cork to reinvent themselves as a comedy double act – Calvin and Colin, the Celtic drolls - before a cocaine scandal had forced them to flee to London where they’d gone incognito as Uber drivers, Dover street market greengrocers, and now, hotel bellhops. John had seen a lot of celebrity debauchery in his young life, perhaps too much, but those two Britpop wankers in the honeymoon suite really took the biscuit. He slumped back down to staff quarters where Edward was peeling potatoes for an Elton John charity dinner and sighed in resignation as he began compiling a repeat order.  
“What’s the matter John?” Edward enquired. “You’re lookin’ awful sad.”  
“I just had a run-in with some ruffians in the honeymoon suite,” John replied. “I feel mighty guilty about all the champers they’re wasting up there.”  
He stood staring into the champagne fridge for the longest time, cooling down the shame burning his cheeks, unable to admit that those 3 seconds spent licking the Paisley carpet had been the most sexually thrilling experience of his life.  
“Sure, leave it, I’ll go up and deal with them,” Edward implored, throwing down the potato peeler defiantly. “Nobody’s too much of a match for old Edward “Left Hook” McAnalty!”  
He chortled as he took the champagne hamper from his brother and headed to the elevator.  
“I told y’ before, Edward!” John called after him. “Nobody actually calls ye that!”  
But it was too late.


	2. A McAnalty Scorned

As Edward rode the lift to the top floor of the hotel he remembered something granda had told him on his death bed.  
“Edward,” he’d said. “A well-run hotel is like a well-oiled machine.”  
He might not have said “hotel”, he might have actually said “Celtic supporters club”, and Edward had only been six at the time, but nevertheless, he was going to make that daft old Galway man proud.   
He marched straight up to the door of the honeymoon suite and knocked with all his might.  
“Open up fellas!” he demanded, feeling like daddy must have felt when he went on one of his “house raids” back in the 70s. “Hell hath no fury like a McAnalty scorned!”  
Crossing himself for speaking of the devil’s kingdom, he pressed his ear to the door but there was no response, save for some animalistic groaning. Whipping the hotel skeleton key from his belt, he swiftly unlocked the room and burst in on a sight that almost brought up his stew. Astride the satin plush heart-shaped bed lay the hairy spread of a middle-aged man, whose chest in itself was uncanny to the face of a weeping monster, receiving fellatio from a thoroughly unimpressed looking Japanese waif.   
“Cor, Draggie darlin’!” the man sighed, eyes closed. “That’s pure quality, quality!”  
Edward couldn’t help but let out a yelp of mixed responses, overcome by the horror of such an ugly man, yet also intensely aroused by the voyeuristic situation. The Japanese lady broke off her grasp as she whipped round to look at him.  
“Jesus Christ, Damon!” she yelled. “Who’s this then? One of your nutters?”  
She spat a glob of his own seed back at him, bringing him round from his erotic bliss, as she marched to the en suite bathroom in tears. Damon sat up, rubbing his eyes and screamed.  
“Who the bleedin’ hell are you?” he yelled, angrily hoisting up his trousers.  
“Room service!” Edward just about stuttered, holding the champagne hamper over his burgeoning semi. “I brought your champagne!”  
“Well fat lot of good it’s gonna do now!” Damon bellowed, storming into the bathroom after his distraught companion. “Little Dragon, please…darlin’!”  
“Don’t ‘Little Dragon’ me!”   
The fighting continued as Edward gingerly backed out of the room and closed the door. John was right, these two were off their rocker.  
Just as he was about to open the elevator, another rough looking man peeked his head out of the bridal suite across the hall.  
“Ahh there you are!” he called to him. “Yes, you boy! Bring that basket here! Hurry!”  
Without thinking, mind still racing from the scene he’d just encountered, Edward followed him into the room…where another equally haggard looking man lay arse-up, naked and oiled up from head to toe.  
“You don’t mind helping me hog-tie him, do you?” Alex asked, but before he’d got an answer, Edward had dropped the basket and taken off down the hall, his lunch threatening to make an appearance if he were to stay a moment longer.


	3. All Taste and No Texture

“Who was that?” Graham asked, voice muffled by the goose feather pillows.  
“Oh, nobody sweetheart,” Alex muttered, shoving a sprig of parsley between his lover’s ass cheeks. “Just that strange Irish boy from earlier. Now then” He looked around. “Oh bother, I forgot to tell him to bring a spice rack!”  
Graham groaned, remembering that lustful weekend that Claire was away with the kids, whenever Alex had left him marinating in a mint and parsley ju for six hours while he dashed round Oxfordshire trying to find the right kind of crème fraiche.  
“Oh Alex! Please leave your perfectionist tendencies behind…just for tonight!” he pleaded. “I just want to be put in the oven already!”  
Throwing down his bundle of bay leaves, Alex straightened up from his crouched position over Graham’s bare behind, bottom lip trembling.  
“This is why it’ll never work between us Graham!” he exclaimed, hastily picking up the fig leaves and rosemary strewn around the room. “You don’t appreciate the art of a good seasoning! It’s all taste and no texture with you!”  
“Al-Alex,” Graham began to stammer, distraught.  
“No!” Alex yelled. “It’s over! Until you can man up and accept me for who I am; culinary finesse and all!”  
And with a flourish he swept from the room, mincing the fuck out once and for all, the tears – part from his emotion, part from that onion he’d been fashioning into a butt plug earlier – blinding his vision as they streamed down his crease-filled face. Maybe he was getting too old for this sort of thing. He’d often thought about retiring to a small commune of culinary fetishists he’d heard whisperings of in the Shetland Islands. But who would look after Bessie, his prize sheep, when he was gone? Claire had been dropping hints about making shepherd’s pie for a while now and he couldn’t take any chances. Upset and overwhelmed, he blindly ran to the room across the hall, mistaking it for the bathroom and burst in, sobbing.  
Back in the bridal suite, Graham was having an existential crisis of his own. He loved Alex with every inch of his being but why couldn’t he just have a normal fetish like rubber or being pissed on like everybody else? After slipping twice on attempting to stand up, he resorted to sliding snake-like across the polished wood floor, leaving a snail trail of olive oil behind him, and head-butting the bathroom door until it opened. Once inside though, he was out of options. Years ago, in another life, Alex would have taken him from behind against the sink in a hotel bathroom like this, cigarette in one hand and flute of champagne in the other, after a night of popping E’s and snorting coke. Now unless there were at least 20 different condiments and half a farm involved, Alex could barely get it to two inches, and since Graham’s back had started playing up he was no longer in a position to refuse his lover’s wants, especially when he found himself tied up on a roasting tray with a pair of chopsticks up his arse. Sighing in resignation and unable to pull himself up without slipping uncontrollably, Graham resorted to banging his head against the tiled floor in a vain attempt to knock himself out. At least this way he might guarantee himself a good three hours out of this horrid reality, or, if he was lucky, he might have that haemorrhage he’d always fantasised about once and for all.


	4. Up and Down on the Gucci Beret

Damon reclined back on the heart shaped bed and sighed in relief, whipping out his cock with one hand and popping a Viagra with the other. After this afternoon’s unscheduled disruptance, he’d finally talked some sense into a hysterical Little Dragon and convinced her to get back to pleasuring him but it hadn’t been easy.  
And yet it hadn’t always been like this. He gasped fondly, remembering their first backstage shag, after a particularly charged performance of ‘To Binge’ had ended with him accidentally cumshotting over the orchestral section (thank GOD M.I.A. had been performing at the Superbowl that same weekend was all he had to say about that incident). Back then she was just another skin-tone on his checklist of ‘Ethnicities to Do’ before he could fully consider himself an intellectual shagger; and he was just another white guy with a face like untanned leather who tried to fetishize her - but since people actually knew who she was now she couldn’t complain. Both of their wives had been blissfully unaware of the affair, plus Little Dragon was making more bank than ever. Even when Gorillaz broke up and she’d got those threatening texts off the guy who drew the cartoons calling her “a right Yoko Ono”, things had been alright.   
But it all changed that summer Damon had flown out to Japan just to see her. It was only meant to be for the weekend but after losing his Visa on a Kyoto light rail train, Damon was forced to fly the other Blur members out and cause “alt news” confusion over an alleged concert date so Suzy wouldn’t get suspicious. Little Dragon was already at her wit’s end before they’d suddenly moved into her house full time to start recording an album, “just to give the others something to do while they’re here, darlin’!” The sex was brief and all too often interrupted by Dave “drumming out his anger” or that time Graham got squid ink poisoning. One weekend, when Alex and Graham had gone on a hike and Dave was out shopping for samurai swords, Little Dragon finally thought she had her man to herself only to discover he’d pissed off to Korea for two weeks.  
This coup d’electrique in London was meant to be a long-awaited apology for those two weeks she’d spent cooking, cleaning, and occasionally servicing his bandmates while he was in Pyongyang on a shroom trip. But it wasn’t exactly what Little Dragon had in mind.  
As if being interrupted by that Irish twink earlier wasn’t off-putting enough, she now found herself whipping and stamping on one of Damon’s favourite hats – an old pain-play fetish of theirs that, this afternoon, fell particularly sour. As she marched up and down on the Gucci beret, Damon had his Hampton Wick in hand, going at it like a machine gun. It’s times like these she wondered what life would have been like if the British had lost the war.  
Suddenly in burst Alex, breaking the door right down, and flopping uncontrollably onto the plush carpet like a fish pulled from its tank. He was sobbing so hard his body shook, rendering him completely oblivious to his bandmate, pleasuring himself a mere 5 feet away.  
“Bloody ‘ell, Alex!” Damon screamed, member deflating faster than an infected breast implant. “What the fuck are you doing here?!”  
“I can’t take much more of this!” Little Dragon exclaimed, throwing her hands up in defiance, and storming back to the bathroom.  
Alex sat up sniffling, awkwardly wiping at the snot he’d smeared onto the rug, and got the fright of his life.  
“Damon? Little Dragon?”  
“Yes!” Damon snapped, tucking his junk away once again. “It’s us!”  
Alex felt sick, breaking out in cold perspiration as he began to realise the enormity of the situation he found himself embroiled in. Not only was Damon – who he’d long since left for dead after a particularly coke-fuelled night at Fabric – here, in the very same hotel as he and Graham’s erotic excursion, but he was also indulging in an illicit affair to rival his own! This would never do. Could he imagine if The Sun, The Daily Star, The Oxford Herald even…got a hold of this multimillion dollar scoop? His esteemed food column would surely get pushed to the midsection, or, even worse, a preface to the Sports supplement…and he had a cracking cheese on toast life hack (ladling caviar onto melted Brie on a crisp rye loaf) lined up for this weekend’s press! As if confirming his deepest fears, a solemn hushed Asian voice came from the en suite... “Hello, is that TMZ?”  
Damon’s head snapped round so quickly, Alex could hear every muscle in his neck creaking.   
“Draggie, darlin’!” he bellowed, marching into the bathroom. “You don’t have to do this!”  
“£5000 or the beret pics go live Damon!” Little Dragon cackled. “And tell your sweaty friend he’s not going anywhere! I still have those cheese play shots from Tokyo!”  
Alex couldn’t believe what he was hearing, his vision clouded with rage as he stumbled to his feet, swaying like he was back on that one week heroin binge he’d had with Marianne Faithfull in ’99. Wiping the angry froth from his mouth he just about made it to the bathroom where Damon sat sobbing on the toilet seat whilst Little Dragon cleared out the medicine cabinet, furiously spitting at him in rapid Japanese.  
“How could you do this to me, Damon?” Alex wailed, clutching onto the doorframe to support himself, knuckles turning white. “This was meant to be my perfect erotic getaway! MINE!”  
He whined, pouting and stamping his feet – a tip he’d picked up from his brood to get access to some of Claire’s “milky treats”.   
This display of infantile protest was the last straw for Damon, already an empty shell of a broken man. Maybe back in the day when the blizzard of cocaine bespeckled many a band member’s nostrils, they might’ve had a good guffaw, a right good chuckle or two, at Dave harassing a novelty interviewer, or perhaps even a slight chortle at Alex’s pathetic attempt at “comedy”, asking a fully-grown man “Who invented poo?” But now as he sat on the plush heated seat of this Savoy hotel suite toilet, tears pruning his fingertips with every sob, his lover getting ready to walk out on him, he’d truly reached the end of his tether.  
“YOUR erotic getaway?” he retorted, drawing himself up to his full height. “You jammy cunt, you-”   
He stormed towards the slightly overweight man, arms outstretched, hands ready to close round that cravat adorned throat.  
Alex was forced to think on his feet as that unsightly haggard fiend he’d once called a friend, lunged towards him. His sweat-soaked hands slipped from the doorframe he’d been using to support himself as on instinct, he ran towards the mini bar.  
“Damon!” he cried, crouching behind the fridge door and hurling the complimentary Ciroc minis at him one by one. “SHE’S the one you want to kill! Not me!”  
Damon was swinging blindly, lurching like a drunken Tasmanian devil, his chest contorted into the face of a weeping baboon as he began to scream, tearing the bed curtains down and ripping the goose feather pillows apart. Using a silver tea tray to shield himself, Alex scurried into the wardrobe and crouched beneath the Adidas jackets, fumbling with his phone as his perspiring fingers slid off the screen and he frustratedly tried to dial 999. But it was too late. In a sudden spur of Damon’s superhuman strength however, the doors had been ripped from their hinges, sending both Alex and Little Dragon’s kimono collection tumbling onto the rug. With the sad expression on Damon’s mottled chest, glistening under the room’s fluorescent lighting, towering over him, lurching from side to side, Alex quickly came to the grim realisation that this would have to be settled man-to-man if he was to make it out of here alive. “Here goes nothing,” he thought to himself, scrambling to his feet, and with a mighty war cry, he’d delivered Damon a swift bunch of fives that knocked the man legless.   
Fresh from raiding the hotel safe, Little Dragon burst back on the scene at the sound of a man being knocked unconscious, her main kink. Alex meanwhile was starting to panic at the velocity of his own punch.  
“W-what do we do now?” he whined, the Xanax he’d popped in the taxi earlier starting to wane.  
“Now?” Little Dragon declared. “We make him pay.”


	5. In His White Knuckled Grasp...

As the clock struck half past nine in the servants’ quarters, John and Edward had long since headed to bed, in the cupboard room they shared in the basement, with nothing but their Irish heirlooms, gold-gilded portraits of John F. Kennedy, and the cellar rats for company. Tucked up in their shared single bed, top to tail in their monogrammed skivvies, it was Edward’s turn to read the bedtime story. They got their literature from whatever absent-minded guests left behind in the lobby and this week it was what looked like a rather good crime romance thriller called ‘The Female Eunuch’.  
Just as Edward had straightened his nightcap and was about to start reading, the sound of smashing glass and unmistakeably plummy screaming broke him from his night-time reverie.  
“Heavens above!” he cried, reaching for the candle holder on the nightstand. “John, did y’hear that?”   
John nodded, veneers chattering with fear.  
“Edward,” he stuttered. “G-get the gun, lad.”  
Clutching daddy’s old sawn-off automatic rifle in his quaking hands, Edward led the way trembling, as John tentatively followed, wringing his nightcap in vain. As the rest of the hotel slept, the Tipperary twinks’ firm nubile bodies glistened in the heat of the muggy summer night under their satin skivvies, creeping along the plush carpeted halls. They were used to the odd z-lister checking in to their humble establishment for a healthy dose of debauchery; John couldn’t help but recall heading down to staff quarters one afternoon to find a sweaty red-faced Warren Beatty emerging from the disabled toilet…followed by a smirking Faye Dunaway no less. The old man’s bewildered murmurs of “W-where am I? Joan? What year is this?” would haunt him for years.   
But this level of fetishism and violence was simply too much. And from such an irrelevant band of frankly unattractive doughy men, who weren’t even Boyzone, was downright, well…insulting.  
“This is the room!” John declared, once they’d arrived at the Bridal suite, gulping back a wad of anxiety flem. “Y-you knock!”  
His act of bravado was starting to wane, especially as his mind was flooded with flashbacks of champagne bottles crashing against ornate marble floors.  
“Open up!” Edward bellowed, locking and loading the rifle. “Open up I say! Let’s have you!”  
“Edward, for heaven’s sake be careful now!” John trembled, as his brother angled the musket at the diamond-encrusted doorknob.  
“Hold on a minute, John, the trigger’s stuck.” Edward swivelled the gun round in his arms and squinted down the barrel. “Ahh I see what the prob”

BAM!

Graham had been passed out in the bathtub for what seemed like an eternity, after downing a bottle of cold medicine and wrapping the bath mat round himself for warmth, his oily body sticking to the porcelain. He was just in the middle of an exceptionally vivid fever dream involving Amanda Lepore and a sex hammock whenever a piercing gunshot and a bloodcurdling scream suddenly jostled him from his coma…and not a moment too soon, as he noted a particularly thick turquoise foam had begun to froth from his mouth. Slipping and sliding trying to grapple with the tub’s edges, he fumbled for his glasses on the soap dish and called out in the darkness.  
“Alex?!” he yelled. “Is that you?”  
All of a sudden, the light was thrown on and in darted some sort of glimmering Celtic nymph, draped in blood-spattered, yet awfully tempting, sheer nightwear, sobbing complete gibberish.  
“Call an ambulance!” the boy cried. “Call a bloody ambulance!”  
“Fuckin’ ell!” Graham exclaimed, standing up, immediately slipping backwards and grabbing onto the shower curtain to support himself. “Get me some fuckin clothes first!”  
Wiping the froth from his lips with the back of his hand, he clambered out of the bath, and the young Irish twink threw him a dressing gown before dashing from the room. Despite the fact his vintage 1978 Yves Saint Laurent frames were askew and missing a lense, there was no mistaking the sight that affronted Graham as he gingerly stepped from the confines of the bridal suite and into the hall, immediately wishing he’d worn his clogs as his bare calloused feet hit the blood-soaked carpet. Now that his conscious thought was returning he recognised the young Galway gay as that precocious bellhop from earlier! As for the equally nubile body lay spread eagle on the rug, still clutching a 9 calibre in his white knuckled grasp…well, it was hard to tell. His face had been blown clean off. The cough syrup chose this particularly grim moment to make a reappearance and Graham stepped back into the room to vomit loudly into the brass spittoon.   
“CALL 999!” the faceless body cried. “999!”  
Graham’s still oily fingers fumbled with the cordless room service phone as his vole-like cock began to stiffen under his terrycloth robe.   
“Oh bugger, not now!” he whined, straining to conceal it as emergency services finally answered his call.  
Checking the clock on the nightstand he realised with horror that it was only 9.36pm. This was set to be a long night…


	6. Urgent Medical Attention

There’d had been many’s a moment in the life of Edward McAnalty that had made him question his faith. Not winning the X Factor…not winning Eurovision…that time he’d walked in on Louis Walsh snorting cocaine out of a prostitute’s arse crack… It was enough to make a man agnostic. But now, lying a bloodied disfigured mess in nothing but a sheer nightgown on the floor of the Savoy hotel, he had to wonder what all the years of midnight mass handies and confession booth blowjobs had truly amounted to. He was on a one-way train straight to eternal damnation and this blithering oiled-up idiot, who seemed even uglier through his blood-stained vision, was in the driver’s seat.  
“Trust a clapped-out Britpop star to kidnap a tramp to shag,” he thought to himself, bitterly, …although he could barely hear himself think at all over the sound of John’s obnoxious sobbing, occasionally punctuated by breaking into song of Cliff Richard’s ‘Lord’s Prayer’ in whistle tones Mariah herself would kill to possess.  
John hadn’t been this distressed since Debbie Reynolds died. Gazing down on his twin brother, slumped over, jaw almost completely blown clean off, he wished he’d listened to momma when she’d seen them off from Dublin harbour, that ill-fated first day of the X Factor live shows. Handkerchief waving in the wind as she bade them goodbye, “Eire Abu, lads!” she’d wept. Moreover, he couldn’t help thinking about how he was going to clean blood, bone and nasal cartilage out of the bespoke Wilton wall-to-wall carpeting. If Senior Management found out about this, Edward wouldn’t be the only one needing urgent medical attention. Where had that ugly little oiled up man disappeared to?  
“Have you phoned for a fecking ambulance yet, ye daft cunt?!” he suddenly yelled, storming back into the bridal suite.  
“Y-yes,” Graham stuttered. “Th-they’re on their way!”  
High on the rush of swearing for the first time, John felt unstoppable.  
“That’s ‘yes, SIR!”” he ordered.  
“Y-y-yes sir!” Graham whimpered, cowering under an oriental throw. “P-please…I just wanna go ‘ome.”  
“Nobody leaves this building alive unless I say so!” John declared, temperature rising as he looked around and picked up Edward’s gun. It was time that he took matters into his own hands – no matter how much they shook as he desperately tried to compose himself.  
He kept the gun trained on the sobbing man while they waited for the ambulance to arrive, casting his gaze over the sordid scene the lovers had left it in. Truth be told, the description Edward had given him prior of those two heaving, out-of-shape mid-life men had been unbelievably visceral; trust Eddy to shoot himself in the face and ruin it all. Now he’d never know what it was like to intercept a fetishist love ring and play out some of his darker fantasies.   
Or would he?   
A sudden unmistakeable animalistic groan from the Honeymoon suite across the hall startled him into action, gun slipping from his grasp.  
“DON’T SHOOT, DON’T SHOOT!” Graham howled, diving under the satin bedsheets, a trembling mess of a man.  
As the groaning continued however, John felt the beginnings of a burgeoning erection under his sheer lace nightwear. His mind entranced with the filthiest of middle-aged male fantasies, his body longed to be handled by rough, bass-playing hands and he found himself giving in, almost tripping over his own feet in his haste to the door of the elusive honeymoon suite…  
Leaving Graham and a permanently maimed Edward, who was now rather worryingly convulsing, alone, both sobbing, he made a deal with himself: “If, when I turn the bejewelled handle of this door, it opens; then it was God’s will. If not, I leave this place forever, and find somewhere quiet and holy to reside in solitude for the rest of my days. Somewhere where nobody will ever find me; Omagh perhaps?”  
But before he could work out how much the Goldline bus would cost, the door had opened by itself and a pair of stranger’s hands had pulled him inside…


	7. The Shining Nugget of Hope

It had been vitally important that Alex and Little Dragon rendered Damon completely immobilised before he regained consciousness, and having trussed him up bondage-style in Savoy hotel branded towels, they could now set to work having some fun with the greasy despot. Alex had to admit, he was thoroughly impressed by Little Dragon’s knowledge of gang-style torture and execution tactics – although she’d needed his help with some of the bondage knots as she was missing both pinkie fingers – and even more in awe of her collection of urethral sounds, which she’d occasionally wave in front of Damon’s face to make him whimper. Her desire from this makeshift S&M session was, of course, one of purely sexual humiliation; Alex, however, had his eye on the prize and wasn’t going home without it. He’d just selected a fine-looking pair of pliers from Little Dragon’s dominatrix toolbox whenever gunfire and distressed screaming from out in the hall interrupted their pain-play.  
“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Alex moaned. “Go see who that is!”  
Little Dragon sighed, having been halfway through affixing a 12-inch strap-on, and tore open the door of the suite to reveal a blonde blood-soaked nymph, yanking him into the room by the hem of his silk negligee.   
“Don’t say a word!” she hissed, buckling up her dildo and marching him to the bed.

Smoothing down his pale pink nightdress, John noticed his erection was outrageously unconcealable but these deviants he’d found himself in the company of were too busy to notice. He too found himself completely distracted by his half-chub by the sight that affronted him; a stunningly hairy, dough ball of a man, bound and gagged with the hotel towels, and covered in humiliating phrases, scribed in lipstick.  
“Well don’t just stand there!” snapped the Japanese femme-dom who’d pulled him inside this den of sin, handing him a leather whip. “Start spanking!”  
“You sad little monster!” the other raven-haired tormentor, who John recognised as the middle-aged kinkster who’d made him lick the champagne-sodden carpet earlier, jibed, towering over the tied-up man.  
John felt the sturdiness of the whip in his hands and his member stiffened further. Tonight he was going to experience the sexual ecstasy he’d always craved…

Now that that blithering bellhop idiot from earlier had joined the BDSM sesh, Alex couldn’t afford to wait any longer. This was ending tonight! Tearing the ball-gag he’d fashioned from two hair-bobbles and a pair of socks from Damon’s salivating jaws, he crouched over his former frontman, pliers in hand.  
“That’s it,” he teased, reaching for the sobbing oaf’s unmistakeable golden crown. “Come to papa!”  
“What the HELL are you doing, Alex?” Little Dragon cried, grabbing hold of his arm. “We’re simply trying to sodomise him, not fucking kill him!”  
“BITCH!” he yelled, stumbling backwards. “Don’t dare try and stop me! The mortgage rate’s gone up in the Cotswolds, you know, and running a bloody farm doesn’t pay for itself! This little beauty’s going straight on Cash4Gold to pay for Geronimo’s Oxford tuition fees!”  
Damon was wailing like a baby as Alex wrestled himself out of Little Dragon’s clutches, whilst John stood anxiously, mustering up the courage to start flailing someone fast.   
It all seemed to happen in slow motion then as Alex wrenched himself free and affixed the pliers to the shining nugget of hope inside the braying man’s mouth, pulling it straight from the gum with one almighty yank that sent him crashing backwards against the wall, a tasteful Van Gogh ‘Sunflowers’ print falling from its hanging onto his head. Punching his way out from underneath the cheap canvas (B&M no doubt!) he jumped up with a defiant cry of “AHA!” holding the glistening tooth up to the light, elated to finally hold what was rightfully his. HE was the “chap” of the group after all – what did Damon think he was doing, parading around with such a status symbol? For Christ’s sake, rumour has it, Mrs. Albarn senior, (bless her though, she did make a mean gluten-free carrot cake) had once, in a marijuana-induced daze, voted LABOUR!  
As the blood gushed from Damon’s mouth, his eyes rolling back in his head from the pain, Little Dragon and John standing mouths agape in shock, Alex kissed the gold tooth three times, tears of joy prickling under his sunken eyes.  
“So long suckers!” he happily declared. “Have a swell time beating the shit out of each other while I’m living the high life! Oh ho ho, everything’s coming up Steven Alexander!”  
He chuckled gaily to himself as he opened the door to leave, to walk out of here a free man …when all of a sudden Graham, still dressed in nothing but a towel robe and clutching a highball, burst into the room, knocking straight into him in his flustered haste.   
“MY TOOTH!” Alex cried, as he fell to the floor and his prize was sent hurtling from his grasp, disappearing along the skirting boards.  
“Alex, I-” Graham began, sheepishly picking himself up and adjusting his glasses, but Alex had already beaten him to it, instantly collaring him and throwing him across the room to the clutches of Little Dragon.  
“Tie ‘im up, Gladys!” Alex barked, rolling up his sleeves and smacking his fist into the palm of his hand menacingly. “This time it’s personal!”


	8. Sweet Release

Graham had known he’d be engaging in some rough sodomic action this weekend, probably whilst hog-tied, as he’d kissed his wife and child goodbye on Saturday morning and minced down the gravel drive to where Alex’s taxi was waiting. This just wasn’t exactly how he’d envisioned it – tied up in towels alongside his former frontman, who was gurning and sucking on a pack of frozen peas, leered over menacingly by Alex – sweet sweet Alex, once his lover -, a dressed in head-to-toe leather Little Dragon, and the non-fatally-wounded one of the twink bellhops, who’s hard-on was so pronounced it was practically poking him in the eye from across the room.  
“Now,” said Alex, rubbing his hands together devilishly. “Where should we begin?”  
Little Dragon smirked.  
“We?” she enquired. “There is no ‘we’ anymore, Al.” She nodded at John. “Johnny Boy, tie him up.”  
John’s body shivered with indescribable delight as he threw the curtain cord – the only thing left in the room (Graham having been tied up with the lamp and phone extension wires) – around Alex like a lasso. He’d been promoted!  
“Now look here!” Alex cried as John set to work on his best butterfly knots. “What’s all this about?”  
“There’s a lesson to be learned here, Al!” Little Dragon declared with a snide smile. “Brawl on your own damn time sure…but don’t let it interrupt my sodomy! Now” She began lubing up her flaming pink strap-on with siracha sauce. “Who wants to go first?”  
The three men roared in unison, tears streaming down their sagging faces before the Kyoto kinkster had even made her first move. Meanwhile John’s eyes were agleam as he realised he was going to see some hard core rectal penetration, up close and personal. This was truly what dreams were made of.  
“Draggie, darlin’, please!” Damon wept, straining against his towel shackles. “Think of the good times!”  
“You first then!” cackled his leather-clad tormentor.  
With a flourish, she prised apart his hairy legs and began to push the spicy member deep inside him.  
“AAAGH!” wailed the cockney slob. “My anal virginity…lost forever! I was saving my backdoor cherry for marriage!!!”  
“Ugh!” Little Dragon sighed, jackhammering his swollen arsehole. “Somebody shut him up!” She pointed at John. “John! Stick your cock in his mouth!”  
The virginal twink didn’t have to be told twice. Pulling up the soft material of his nightgown with clammy hands, he felt both the disbelief that suddenly all his fantasies were coming true, and the elation of having his ferociously hard member serviced at long last. Trembling in anticipation, he timidly placed the swollen tip of his pulsating joystick in Damon’s blood-filled mouth; the gurning man flinching as the fat length of flesh scraped against his open gum wound and resigning himself to sucking in accordance. Before John could feel that first sweet release however, the violent tryst was crudely interrupted by the piercing screech of ambulance sirens and tires squealing to a halt outside.  
“Oh blazes!” Little Dragon cried, pulling out abruptly. “It’s the feds! I’m not going back, not again!”  
The footsteps of what sounded like a hundred steel-toe booted men bounding up the stairs and along the hall came from out of nowhere as the room was sent into panic. Alex, realising a rescue mission was on its way began shuffling himself towards the edge of the bed whilst Graham broke into a joyous cry of “WE’RE SAVED!” Little Dragon however had other ideas. Furiously shoving her rubber dildos and blindfolds in a Tesco shopping bag and pulling a kimono on over her fetish gear, she snatched up her car keys and headed for the door.  
“See you never, fellas!’ she snapped. “Give my regards to Room Service!”  
But before she could turn the handle, the door had been kicked down on top of her, squashing her flat as in burst a familiar face, brandishing a machete, tens of heavily armed men behind him, trampling her into the rug.

Dave had known it was just going to be One of Those Nights when he’d clocked into work at the Law Office that morning. He didn’t always get to accompany the emergency services on a rescue mission but where there was money to be made off a vulnerable victim or two, he’d be there in a heartbeat. When he’d got the call to say there was gun violence and a missing jaw involved, and then Sheila, his industry insider, had patched him through to a recording of the 999 call that was unmistakeably the dulcet tones of a one Graham Coxon, well…how could he say no? Something in him had compelled him to bring that samurai sword he’d purchased at that kendo class he’d taken in Tokyo last summer and now, as he and his legal team climbed the stairs to Room 28 of the Savoy hotel, behind the paramedics, the stench of blood filling the air, he felt certain he’d made the right choice.  
“OH DEAR GOD!” he heard one of the ambulance staff cry, upon discovering a clapped out faceless body, strewn haphazard in the hallway.  
Pressing a handkerchief to his face to quell his nausea Dave backed against the door of the room behind him in shock…and heard the unquestionably plummy voices of his former bandmates behind it.   
“Lord give me strength,” he muttered, before turning to the police riot squad who’d assembled in the hall as the bloody body was carried out on a stretcher. “They’re in here lads!”  
Crashing through that Honeymoon suite door, accidentally trampling to death a small Asian woman in the process, and coming face to face with the horrors that lay inside was a memory that would haunt his crippling sleep paralysis attacks for the rest of his days. All three of his former bandmates, in various forms of undress, tied up and blood-splattered, Damon still servicing a young blonde twink, oblivious to what was playing out around them. He’d seen these three get up to some mischievous hijinks in his time…tying him to abandoned train tracks and “forgetting” about him…spiking his gin with Viagra…that time they’d tried to water board him…but this…THIS took the absolute biscuit.

John was completely surrendered to his senses, his body aflame as he pumped vigorously, Damon’s washing machine mouth taking him to a plane of sensation he’d never known existed. Nothing could break this spell, not even the angry lawyer and the hoard of riot police who’d just taken the room by force.  
“The jig’s up lads!” the lawyer bellowed into a megaphone. “Drop your penises!”  
“H-hang on,” John panted. “One minute..please…”  
Officers began to undo Alex and Graham’s binding, and Graham found himself falling at Dave’s leather brogued feet, weeping tears of joy.  
“Dave!” he cried, wiping his snotty nose on his saviour’s turquoise cords. “You came here to save me!”  
“Yeah…” said Dave, sheepishly. “That’s…what I did…” He motioned to the officers behind him. “Take him away and book him, boys!”  
As Graham and Alex were slammed in handcuffs, Alex angrily declaring that “Oxfordshire’s best lawyers” would hear about this, John was still going at it, seconds away from the best orgasm of his young life.  
“It’s over, sonny,” one of the police officers told him, pulling his arms behind his back to cuff him. “You can take your cock out of the gentleman’s mouth now if you please.”  
“N-no…” John stuttered, as the officer began to physically tug him from Damon’s swollen lips. “Wait…”  
But it was too late. With one final tug, John’s slippery member came free and instantly went into action, shaking violently from the intensity of the orgasm, a jet stream of hot cum shooting out across the room like an automatic sprinkler and showering everyone in its path.   
After the euphoria had passed and he’d stopped moaning, John, took a look around him, at the semen-spattered faces staring back at him in disgust and disbelief and something inside him cracked. He’d truly seen too much and now, in the wake of his intense embarrassment, he was starting to short circuit. Laughing like a maniac, he threw his head back deviously and grinned at Damon, who was now sobbing so hard he was practically unrecognisable  
“You IDIOT!” he smirked, mimicking Alex’s posh dialect. “Just LOOK what you’ve made me do! Lick it up!”  
He cackled again as Dave cautiously stepped into the fray, wiping the cum from his spectacles with his handkerchief.   
“Ok now, son,” he said, tentatively. “Why don’t you come with us?”  
“NO!” John cried, backing away. “You’re all mad you know! You’re all feckin’ mad! The Lord will smite thee, I know it!”  
Alex scoffed, cum hanging in his lank fringe.  
“Oh, piss off already!” he snapped. “You insufferable Irish cunt!”  
“Alright then!” John boldly declared. “I will!”  
And in an unprecedented move that nobody could have predicted, he threw himself backwards out the window with all the grace of a dolphin passing through a ring at SeaWorld, shattering the glass as he plummeted to his death on the sidewalk below.

It was decided that since Dave had technically committed the most heinous offence by trampling Little Dragon to death, that all other crimes committed that evening should be written off and that the lads should “just call it quits”. Graham went back to his wife and child and didn’t leave the house again for three years. Alex went back to his farm and started attending Culinarians Anonymous sessions. After an intense four week Harley Street rejuvenation surgery programme, Damon was back in good shape, gold veneer replaced and anus mended, and after 12 rounds of ECT could barely remember the trauma at all. Meanwhile, the severity of his actions meant Dave was forced to give up his job but found new work satisfaction as a vigilante kendo assassin instead. All round the four seemed to be living their happiest healthiest lives.   
So, what became of Jedward? Well, Edward was flown to San Francisco, was technically the first patient on the planet to ever undergo full facial transplant surgery and now lives a relatively quiet life as a holistic therapist, operating under the alias Dr. Shabobo. And John…his body was scraped off the side of Regent Street and sent back to Ireland where it remains enshrined in a local covenant to this day.   
And as for me? That’s the last time I ever work in the security camera footage surveillance field again, that’s for damn sure. Skin bleaching, lipo, and real horse hair extensions don’t pay for themselves henny! Before I drunkenly apply to a Craigslist ad again though I think I’ll stick to what I do best for now…making moolah off Fit Tea ads on Instagram and crying on my kitchen floor!

Xoxo your blonde sun doll, Trisha Paytas


End file.
